“Not a shred, really, just a thread, a strand, but it’s to the zealous, confirmation strong! And, note that he carried something painted red in his right hand. See the mark, just above his right hand-print, that is indubitably made by a piece of painted wood.” “The devil it is! I say, Moore, you’re going dotty over this thing. At any rate, don’t give it all to Hart or March, for they’ll make ducks and drakes of it in short order.” “No, I shall give it to nobody. I shall use it all myself. I only show it to you, because I want you to witness it. This evidence may be removed, and I want you to swear it was here.” “I can’t swear those are fingerprints,” I complained. “They’re too faint. You can’t swear to that yourself.” “I’ll get the fingerprint man up here, or get his outfit. It’s a wonder what they can do with the merest smudges. And, I say, Norry, what’s the trouble? Don’t you want me to find clues? Don’t you want me to unearth the villain? You didn’t murder Tracy, did you?” “No, but do go slowly, Kee. You’re so impulsive, so headstrong. Now, that red streak, a mere blur, may have been here for days—even weeks.” “Not in this house. Do you see any other smudges or smears on this immaculate white paint? Enamel paint, of the finest sort. Every fingerprint is wiped off within twenty-four hours, I’m sure. That’s why I want to be sure of these.” The men were gone now, so we stepped into the bedroom. Save that the master was absent, the room was much as we had already seen it. The flowers, now withered, still lay on the pillows, and the crackers and orange were on the floor where Doctor Rogers had flung them. The feather duster seemed not to interest Kee, but he scrutinized the window sill with care. “No signs here, you see. And, too, there’s a balcony. It would be easier to dive from the sitting-room window. So that’s what our friend did. See, here’s the lady’s scarf. Now learn, my boy, to distinguish between important and non-important clues. Without doubt, the sentimental Sampson kept that scarf by him as a reminder and souvenir of his bride to be. Most likely, he went to bed, carrying it with him. Perhaps wrapped it about him, or held it to his cheek.” “Don’t be silly!” “Not silly at all. I see you know nothing of fetish worship, remnants of which survive among us moderns in the form of just such souvenirs. So, I deduce the murderer had no hand in providing the scarf. But the flowers had to be brought from their vases, the crackers and fruit from the table, the duster from its proper abiding place, all these things were achieved by our tennis-soled friend.” “And the nail?” I snapped at him. “Yes,” he said, “and the nail.” CHAPTER IX CLUES “And what was the nail driven home with?” I pursued, looking about.